


Campfire Stories

by Scottishowl



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Anthology, Canon Typical Violence, Fluff, Jesus this is a lot of backstory, McCree Mostly, Multi, Parental Issues, Slow Burn, So many chapters to post oh god, The whole gang is here, There be kisses wow, Work In Progress, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-07-15 11:46:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7221106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scottishowl/pseuds/Scottishowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last thing 18-year-old Jesse McCree thought before the bomb immediately to his left went off was nothing flashy. Disappointingly enough, it was not witty nor particularly smooth. He'd barely realized it was there, the only thing registering in his mind was hearing it land and the small beep it made before it went off. And in that split second, before the bright light and the heat and the pain, he couldn't help but think.</p><p>That's not supposed to be there.</p><p>And then flash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which Jesse is a Hero

**Author's Note:**

> An anthology of ideas and headcanons, really. Comments, suggestions, requests, etc. are always welcome. Enjoy.
> 
> McCreedence.Tumblr.com

The last thing 18-year-old Jesse McCree thought before the bomb immediately to his left went off was nothing flashy. Disappointingly enough, it was not witty nor particularly smooth. He'd barely realized it was there, the only thing registering in his mind was hearing it land and the small beep it made before it went off. And in that split second, before the bright light and the heat and the pain, he couldn't help but think.

_That's not supposed to be there._

And then flash.

* * *

 

_"Looking back is a bad habit."_

The sound of the movie filled the otherwise silent living room, the grainy film casting light over the little boy who sat in the darkness, transfixed. The movie was almost 80 years old, bought at an antique store with a few saved up dollars, and the little boy was beyond entranced. His wide, dark, eyes followed John Wayne as he spurred across the screen, an eyepatch covering one eye. This movie was a classic, so the seven-year-old had been told. A classic, and a way to hide from what was going on in the world. His parents hadn't wanted him to know; they'd spoke in low whispers. But he was old enough to understand that the war that had started. And that they weren't winning. Ma kept him inside when he wasn't at school, and even then, his first-grade teacher seemed quiet and distant. But here in Alamo, New Mexico, they were far from the fighting.

But not far from death.

As he sat watching his movie, Jesse could faintly hear his parents talking. His mother's voice pitch up every single time his father let out a raspy wheeze. He was sick, and only getting sicker. They couldn't afford the treatment he needed; they could barely afford the farm as it was. And while that was another thing they tried to hide from Jesse, he knew about it too. He was much smarter than they gave him credit for, he figured. And he knew if he dared say anything about it, his parents would try twice as hard to keep information away from him. And that didn't seem like any fun at all.

So he sat in front of the TV, mostly focused on John Wayne. He could solve any problem he had with that big iron on his hip and the sense of justice. He was a hero. One day, Jesse would be a hero too. And he'd make enough money that his Ma would never have to cry over bills again. She'd be able to live in luxury, like the people in Hollywood or New York. The war would surely be over soon, after all, omnics were just robots. How much fight could they possibly have? If John Wayne was there, the war wouldn't have even started. He could have danced his fingers over that revolver, and nobody would have dared to move; Jesse was sure of it. But sadly, there was no John Wayne, and there wasn't much of a war in the middle of New Mexico. The only thing they had to worry about was the farm and his father, both of which seemed to weigh on the McCree family like boulders. But they'd get through it. They always had before.

 _"Jesse?_ Jesse, _it's time for bed, baby._ " His mother's voice cut through True Grit, and he turned to look in the direction of his voice, his small eyebrows furrowed. He drew his blanket closer around his shoulders and let out a loud whine, looking back to his movie.

"Fifteen more minutes, Ma!" He called back. John Wayne was unholstering his gun. He'd shoot down the villain, surely. The sound of footsteps came closer, and just as the old iron raised, the TV shut off and Jesse found himself being scooped up into strong arms, no matter how hard he wiggled. His mother was more than enough of a match for a 7 year old boy. She'd been raised on a farm not unlike theirs and had been wrangling things stronger than her only child for a long time now.

 _"You can finish it tomorrow. But you have school tomorrow. So it's bedtime."_ There wasn't much use in arguing, but he did whine as she carried him to bed, as if he was a much smaller child. But as Jesse went to bed that night, he didn't think of Omnics or a war or even of cancer. He thought of John Wayne and being a sharpshooting hero. That would be him one day. It would.


	2. Chapter 2

The funeral was on a rainy day. Thunder rolled over the desert in waves, so loud it had been hard to hear the priest bury his dad, loud enough to remind everyone of canon fire and bloodshed. The war was three years in and only getting worse. People died in droves before the omnics and their war machines.

Jesse didn't care.

He and his mother had driven home in silence, her face red and puffy and his devoid of any emotion. He'd cried himself out in the last few days, and now he was left with nothing. People had offered their condolences and their sympathy, but it had felt empty and hollow. He didn't want their thoughts, their prayers. He wanted his father back. But that was too much to ask. He was dead and cold and gone and now in the Earth, like everyone else who had died. And in a way, he was almost happy for it. Happy to not watch him waste away, wheezing and coughing, his bony hands shaking and pale. That's not how he wanted to remember his father. And yet the image was trapped in his skull, no matter how hard he wanted to forget it. But that was over now. Which was worse, to lose someone, or to watch them suffer? It was a big question to ask a boy of only 10.

It was still raining when the truck pulled into the long dirt driveway, throwing mud onto the fences where the horses or cows would be if it wasn't so wet outside. And as they approached the house, it became more obvious that they weren't the only ones who had thrown mud up. Another truck sat in their driveway, it's black, slick paint looking like oil in the rain. And even more so, the person who stood outside in the water, his arms folded across his chest, staring at them as they approached their house. The sight of him put shivers down Jesse's spine, and he looked to his mother. She wasn't focused on him though, she stared ahead at the man, her watery eyes steeling. It wasn't until they were all the way to the house that she finally looked away and turned to Jesse.

 _"Go inside. Go into your room. Lock the door."_ Her voice, which had wavered and shook through the entire day was suddenly as solid as stone. But it wasn't enough to make him want to blindly obey.

"Ma, who is he? Are you--"

 _"Jesse McCree, do not argue with me. You get your ass upstairs right now."_ He didn't need more convincing than that. Trembling fingers undid his seatbelt and opened the truck door. The man moved towards him, and he immediately rushed into the house, closing the front door behind him. Already, he could hear his mother's voice through the door, demanding to know why this man was on their property. Jesse hesitated one-second longer, before he started up the stairs, towards his room in their empty house. His heart was pounding as he closed the bedroom door, locking it tight. His mother didn't yell, didn't swear. And yet he could hear both from his window that overlooked the front yard, the muffled sounds of her fury. Tears stung his eyes, blurring his vision. Of all the days, why did it have to be this one? They just wanted to be left alone, him and his mother. Why was that still too much to ask for?

The screaming stopped for a moment; he heard a car door slam. And then a noise that made his heart stop: a gunshot. Almost painfully loud, it shook his window and shocked him back against the door, his watery eyes turning into full blown sobbing as he tried to unlock his door and rush downstairs. His Ma had been shot, he knew it. She was going to be dead on the driveway, and then he'd be alone and she'd be dead and he'd have to bury her with his father and she was going to be dead. Before he could open the front door though, it swung open, and there stood his mother with a rifle in one hand. Jesse nearly threw himself to her arms, the both of them soaked and her trying to soothe his crying and shaking.

"I thought he killed you, I thought you died, I-I..." He couldn't finish, trembling beneath fingers that ran through his dark locks. He was led to the bottom stair by her careful hands and sat down, her dark hands cupping his face and forcing him to look up at her. He'd never seen his Ma look like she was made of stone, and yet, in that moment, Ma McCree has a statue, cut from the toughest tawny marble ever made. She was absolute and terrifying to anyone who would approach this house again.

 _"Jesse, I'm not gonna leave you that easy. But you gotta know, there are bad people, and they ain't like the ones in your movies."_ Those hands moved around his shoulders, and she pulled him in, pulled him to her chest and rubbed his wet back. _"Sometimes you gotta take things into your own hands, baby. Because sometimes... sometimes the law ain't gonna help you."_ She whispered into his hair, kissing at his temples and tear streaked cheeks. It was all she said, nothing about who he was or what he wanted. Maybe it was to protect him, maybe it was because she couldn't bring herself to speak of it. Either way, Jesse was left in silence with her, until the sun set and the stairway was dark, and they both could slink to bed.


	3. The Deadlock Gang

_The problem with smart kids_ , his Ma had told him,  _is that they're trouble when they get bored. Which is most of the time._ To be fair, Jesse had to agree. He'd been good at school, when he wasn't in trouble. More days than not, his Ma had gotten calls about Jesse causing trouble. Everything from fighting to shooting rubber bands at students from across the classroom had been reported, and so when he graduated at 17, she could not have been happier. There had been photos upon photos taken of him, a grin plastered on a young, stubbly face, standing tall next to his mother. A boy with grades like his could go far, plenty people said. He'd be able to go to college... if the war ever ended. Big cities weren't safe; they were lucky they lived in the middle of nowhere. Lucky that there weren't bastion units on their front step. But lord, some days it didn't feel like it.

The days that the bills were piled up on the table, it felt like they weren't all that lucky. Or the day they had to sell their horses, and hope that Jesse could get a job quickly to try and help support them. He'd considered the military, considered enlisting, but every time he brought it up, he thought his mother would have a heart attack right then and there. So he could cross that off the list. But he was smart. He would get a job and figure out a way to get money into the house.

After 3 months, his optimism started to take a hit. After 4, he started to get desperate. And that was when he met Charlie.

Charlie was akin to a vague memory from back in school. He had been two years older than him, and a worse troublemaker than Jesse, without the grades to boot. He'd been hit in the head one too many times, Jesse figured. Somewhere under all that messy red hair, there had to be a dent the size of his fist. His Ma would kill him if she knew that they talked. And would have skinned him alive if she knew that one day, when Charlie told him that he knew a way for Jesse to make money easy, he hadn't even thought twice before he'd said "Yes."

* * *

 

The Deadlock gang weren't unknown to anyone in the Southwest. They were smugglers, raiders; some people even called them terrorists. But they did make a lot of money, more money than Jesse had ever seen in his whole life. And they were not to be trusted. Their leader, a guy who only went by Deadlock ( _The_ Deadlock? Was the gang named after him? Jesse had a feeling he would regret asking that out loud, so he kept it to himself) had at least 200 pounds and 3 inches on tall, scrawny, Jesse McCree and a scar as thick as his thumb over one white eye. He was not the most friendly of men. And so when Charlie brought him to a warehouse on the very outside of their little town to meet this guy, Jesse was less than thrilled.

 _"So Charlie, this the great guy you promised, eh?"_ Deadlock's voice echoed off the metal walls as he eyed Jesse, who stood in one of the few pools of light avaliable from the massive lamps that hung above them. It was like a sick spotlight that he would have been more than happy to walk out of. At least Charlie, who was the only person who'd been asked any questions at all that evening, didn't have to stand in the light. He felt vaguely like an animal at auction. And if he didn't like him? Then what? Ma got his remains in an evenelope in the mail a week later? Shit. Maybe this wasn't the best idea he could have gone with. But by now, it was too late. If he moved, he was sure that he'd end up biting a bullet.

 _"Jesse's the best shot I've ever seen, Deadlock. You gotta trust me, this is the guy you've been lookin' for."_ The older man looked away from Charlie, who was sweating like a dog, and turned his gaze to Jesse. They held eye contact for a few terrible seconds; Deadlock's blind eye seemed to be burning holes into Jesse, before he finally reached down to the holster on his hip. Charlie jumped, both arms snapping out in front of him, a babble of  _"Hey hey hey, there's no need for that, he's fine, I promise, I'll find someone else if you want!"_ spilling from his lips. But Jesse stood still, even when the man pulled a revolver out of the holster, checked the bullets... and then offered it to him. He hesitated before one hand reached out to take it,the smooth, cool metal feeling strange and new in his hand. Charlie's babble sputtered out as Jesse looked over the gun slowly, examining the glowing rounds that sat in the gun.

" _Peacekeeper's the best gun you could ask for. Don't fuck her up."_ He was smart enough to still not speak, not even when Deadlock motioned for another guy to step forward and stand 40 yards in front of Jesse, a revolver on his hip too.  _"You wanna work for me, Jesse? You prove it. You shoot him before he shoots you, I send you home with 5 grand and a job. You hear me?"_

"Yes." His hands shake and tremble, even as he lowers the gun. Is this worth murder? 5,000 dollars? It could keep her safe. If he gave it in pieces, she'd never know. He'd lie, she couldn't know he was working with smugglers. Even if they did pay enough to pay the bills.  _It's for Ma._ _You gotta do this for her. You gotta keep her safe._

One breath. Two. He waits. And waits.

_"Draw."_

The Peacekeeper snapped up, and fired once.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The violence begins, and what's this????? Blackwatch???? Wow who could have seen this coming.

There were good things and bad things about working with the Deadlock Gang. Plenty of people liked him, he was full of easy grins and oneliners. And his aim was terrifying. Deadlock sent him out ahead when he wanted an easy job; the rest of the gang arriving to find bodies, each with a single bullet hole in their skull. The pay was fantastic, more than enough to send back home to make sure bills were paid. Even the connections were amazing. The man who'd visited their home the day his father died? A ex-lover, an ex- _stalker_ of his mother. Who she never had to worry about again; he was decomposing in the desert with six of Jesse McCree's bullets in his vile corpse. He could go and do as he pleased, anything to protect his Ma back home. But it wasn't all good.

The nightmares weren't good. The visions of dead men, 18-year-old Jesse and his Peacekeeper being stamped on their eyes as the last thing they ever saw. The hollowness that had begun to form in his chest was maybe worst of all. He'd cried and shook and threw up the first time he killed a man. Now? Now he barely paused to look down. It was second nature, shooting. And man, did Deadlock love it. He called him 'son', made sure he got the second best cut of profits. He'd gotten his hands on the quickest duelist in the entire Southwest, maybe the entire world, and couldn't be happier about it.

That didn't fill the emptiness in Jesse. Nothing did.

Not the alcohol or the cigars he'd taken up, not any drugs or women or  _men._ He was empty, and nothing fit. They all just worked to dig out everything in him. He didn't care about anything but getting the money to his Ma. The war was over 10 years in, surely they'd all die sooner or later. So it all just didn't matter anymore. Maybe that was why, when Deadlock came to him as he was cleaning the Peacekeeper, his boots rested on a desk, and told him that they were going after a special shipment, an  _Overwatch_ shipment, Jesse didn't blink an eye. He simply shrugged, and waited for the order that they would go out.

They were to stop them at Route 66. The plans were immaculate; this wasn't just another job. This would require all of the very best work, or they'd die in this raid. So they holed up in a diner with coffee that tasted like dirt, with plans and weapons and the perfect outcome in mind. Overwatch weapons would sell for outrageous prices, they could set some people up for life. Maybe get enough money for Jesse to step out, go back to New Mexico, take care of his Ma. But first things were first. They had to acquire the payload. Nobody was particularly worried, after all, the gang had never failed before. This time wouldn't be any different.

* * *

 

Flash.

Light, and then heat, and then pain. Pain unlike anything he'd ever felt before, all up his left side, leaving him screaming, sobbing, blacking out, even as he was thrown aside by the same blast that incinerated the guy next to him. Things had never, never once, gone this badly. And yet there they were, being rounded up by Overwatch forces.  Even on the ground, his left side mangled and torn though, Jesse wasn't done. He wouldn't die like this. His right hand still clutched his Peacekeeper. Three bullets left meant that he could take three of these government sons-of-bitches with him. He clawed along the ground, bracing himself against a beam, still on the ground. He knew he was hurt, with every frantic heartbeat, he knew more blood was pumping onto the ground. He was gonna die today. Die without saying anything to his Ma; she'd just know he was a dead raider, a criminal. But he wouldn't go alone. He cocked the gun, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. Three bullets. Three deaths. Just had to get them lined up.

He forced himself out of cover, revolver raised, fire in his eyes. One man yelled, aware of his presence, of his missing left side. He was getting woozy, it was a struggle to stand. The Peacekeeper fired once. A man dropped. Twice. One more. His finger squeezed a third time, to try and put a bullet in the head of their leader, some Hispanic dude with a mean look in those dark eyes, but he dropped. The gun clattered to the Earth, and Jesse McCree followed him, coming to rest in his own blood. 

This wasn't how cowboys died. This wasn't ever how John Wayne ended a movie. But it sure as hell was how the villain ended. And maybe that was him now. He reached for his gun once last time, seeing it and black boots, before darkness overtook him, and Jesse moved no more.

* * *

 

_"What should we do with him, sir?"_

_"The kid?"_

_"Yes, sir."_

_"Bring him to Mercy. I'm sure she can stabilize him. Tell her to let me know what happens."_

_"Yes sir."_

Gabriel Reyes wasn't fuckin' paid enough to deal with this. This was supposed to be fairly simple, just move some goods. Something way below his pay grade. And instead? It turned into a full blown shoot out, with plenty of the notorious Deadlock Gang in body bags, and one half blown-up kid with his medical staff. But the kid made things interesting, that was for sure. He had one hell of a gift with that gun, far too many of his men had been killed with something as simple as a revolver. If he survived, then maybe he could make things more interesting.

Until then though, he had to focus on bigger things. Getting the weapons shipment to Jack was currently number one. He was sure that he'd be interested in the trouble it took them to get the weapons there. Spin dead men into heroes. He had a knack for that kind of thing. Until then, they could only wait and see.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the overwhelming positive support. I really hate to do this, but if you really like my writing, and would like to see more of it (and sooner!) please consider sharing or supporting me. https://www.gofundme.com/2a79ryc

The first thing that hit him when he woke up was the smell of antiseptic. 

As his body slowly drifted from its drug-induced unconsciousness, pieces of the world came to him. Bright white lights, the sound of footsteps, the swaying in his head. It all formed as he woke, one hand resting on his chest, and the other left behind at Route 66. How funny. He swore he could still feel his fingers thrumming against the pavement. The last thing to come together though, was the dark figure that sat near the edge of his bed. Dark eyes watched him from even darker brows, belonging to a face that seemed a lot older than its body. But it was familiar, in the same way that Deja Vu was. He knew who this guy was. 

He'd tried to put a bullet in his skull.

Their eyes met, and Jesse immediately got the same feeling he got around Deadlock. He was in the lion's den, and he needed to be careful if he wanted to get out in one piece. Unfortunately, he doubted the Lord was on his side this time. So he sat there in hazy silence, trying to swallow the cotton in his mouth away and the stars out of his eyes. It didn't last long though; his visitor shifted in his seat, sat up straight, and finally addressed him.

 _"What's your name, Hijo?"_ He was greeted with several seconds of pointed silence. Jesse had no idea what this guy already knew; he was government, after all. He could have had every file on him already, every single detail from his name to how many white lies he'd told his Ma. The silence was nearly unbearable, it weighed the air until Jesse was sure that he'd just suffocate. And then the other man seemed to finally be willing to break it, sighing deeply and leaning back in his little fold-up chair. How low tech.

" _Listen. The only reason you're in that bed is because of me. If you want, we can take away the morphine, and then have this little chat later. How'd you like that?"_

"Jesse. Jesse McCree."

He nearly laughed at that. It made Jesse's stomach tighten in fear. Or maybe it was anger, the two of them felt so close right then.

" _Jesse McCree? One hell of a name for a cowboy."_

"I ain't a cowboy." He was a half-dead teenager. Cowboys belonged in movies. That was it. But the man seemed to disagree; hearing that actually made him laugh. The sound didn't lighten the air at all, in fact, the only thing it managed to do was make sweat roll down the back of Jesse's neck. He didn't like this playing, this fucking  _toying_. It made him antsy. Not that hey could do much, with the amount of drugs in his body and the fact that he had no fucking idea he was. God, maybe they were just milking him of info and then killing him. That'd be just perfect.

 _"Well, Jesse, you're in a whole lot of trouble, you know that?_ " He wanted to tell him he was injured, not fucking stupid. (He kept his mouth shut.)  _"Blowing up a train to get government weapons, attacking Overwatch operatives, killing men... How well you think a one armed 18-year-old gonna do in prison? Just curious."_

And just like that, Jesse felt his breath catch. They were going to send him to prison? Where his Ma would know damn well what he was doing? What he'd  _done?_ He was fairly certain that he'd rather they kill him. And what was worse was this motherfucker was  _right._ He was young, and now down one arm. What the fuck was he supposed to do the moment someone heard he was in the Deadlock gang and didn't really like the sound of that? There weren't exactly revolvers in maximum security. And that's where he'd go, with the rest of the murderers and terrorists and fucking  _monsters._ They weren't going to pull the trigger, but Jesse wasn't stupid and he wasn't naive. Prison would mean death. The man looked at him, looked at that fear written all over his face and adjusted himself again.

 _"I'm gonna give you one chance to get away from that. One. So don't blow it, you hear? This isn't sunshine and restore humanity time with Overwatch, Hijo. This is Blackwatch. My name is Gabriel Reyes, and you killed a lot of good men. I could make good use of an arm like that. Hell, I'll get you a new one."_ He nodded once at the bandaged mess that was Jesse's left arm-- or at least, what was left of it. It looked like they'd taken it off at his elbow, leaving him with half an arm and the feeling of ghost fingers. He followed his gaze, staring at where his hand should have been and away from Gabriel's dark glare. He was too much, too intense. He'd get eaten up in those angry eyes.

" _What do you say, hm? Prison or a new job?"_ Jesse couldn't make himself speak, the cotton suddenly so thick in his mouth he thought that he would choke right then and there. It wasn't much of a choice now, was it? He could die in jail or join this Blackwatch. He wasn't stupid. He wasn't fucking  _stupid._ So he looked away from his destroyed arm, looked to Gabriel and forced his tongue to work the way that he needed it to be.

"I... I wanna see my Ma." He looked away again, suddenly wishing there was a window, or something to tell him where the fuck he was. He felt so sick, somewhere between stress and fear and the morphine that dripped into his veins. He could see in her in his mind's eye, wondering where he was, why he hadn't called. She would be horrified to learn about his arm. Sickened to learn how he lost it. "She'll wanna know I got a new job."

_"Smart choice, Cowboy."_


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is kind of small, sorry. Jesse's mom returns!!

Gabriel granted his wish without telling him, like a dark and angry guardian angel.

She came as they were fucking about with his arm. It was brand new, silver metal shining against the dusty dark color of his skin, gold embellishments, blue glowing that assured him that it was on and working. The science of it was spectacular; it reacted as if he’d never lost his arm at all, every single twitch calculated with his thoughts. It was strong too. He'd crushed bars and boxes in his new robotic hand as if they were nothing, faster than he could have ever hoped to move with his soft, breakable, human body.

But he did miss being able to feel. They told him that seeing his arm would help with the phantom limb, that it would hurt or itch, and to act as if fixing his metal arm would fix the issue. But it was still made of steel and wiring and circuitry. It couldn’t feel, not now, not ever. Jesse wasn't so sure on all of it, but he wouldn't argue with people smarter than him. And these people were much smarter.

They were calibrating things, making sure he wouldn't accidentally bash his own head in with the strength of it, when the door to his room opened. Jesse had looked up, expecting Doctor Zeigler or Gabriel or a nurse. In no way had he expected to actually see his mother standing there, a suitcase in one hand, and tears in her dark eyes. They stayed like that for a moment, technicians quickly getting out of the way as Jesse stared at his mother, silent and shocked at her appearance. New York was a long, long, way from home. And then they burst into motion.

"Mama."

He felt his voice crack under the weight of emotion that consumed him, sitting bolt upright as she rushed into the room, leaving her bag and coat right there on the ground. She all but threw herself to the bed, her arms wrapping around Jesse’s bare shoulders. He could hear her sob around him, and he found that he was crying too. Crying at the fact he almost made her go to his funeral too, that he left her alone, that she was going to know what he'd become. But that could wait for just one moment.

_"My boy, my Jesse, my baby."_ She smoothed her hands through his shaggy brown hair, kissing at his face, his hair, any part of her son that she could. He hadn't seen her cry like this since his father had died. She was sobbing, clutching at him as if he would vanish if she let go for one second. And so they just sat there, the both of them crying until there wasn't a tear left between the two. Even then, Jesse’s breath trembled and shook as his mother held his hand in hers, the other hand running over his new prosthetic as if would come alive and bite her.

"They... They gave me it to replace the arm I lost at the--"

_"The shootout._ "

Her voice was quiet, wilted. Was it disappointment or relief? He was too scared to ask. As it was, Jesse felt his stomach drop; he had no clue how she knew. Maybe Gabriel had told her, maybe it was in the news. He was so cut off from the world that he couldn't have guessed in a hundred years. Maybe she'd known the entire time.

"Ma, I'm sorry, I just... Just..." His voice cracked again, threatening to spill over into tears once more. Immediately she reached over, pulling him close, exactly how she had when he was a young boy.

_"You don't gotta apologize to me, baby.""_ She whispered into his hair, keeping him close enough to smell the lingering smoke and sage on her clothes. Smelled like home. _" You ain't done nothing to hurt me. But you hurt yourself real bad, and you gotta find a way to forgive that._ "


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit I'm so sorry I've been gone for 12974328974 years
> 
> I moved to Texas
> 
> I'm more of a Cowboy than Jesse

They were kind to him, and that's what threw him off the most.

In the first few weeks, it was so alien to this scrawny, quiet, boy, that they would be as gentle to him as they were. Even Reyes, who looked over everyone with the intensity of a hawk brought him food and made sure he was safe after a rough training session. It was almost too much. He couldn't help but feel as if it was all one big joke, and so he waited and waited for the punchline to come. He waited for them to take away the bed or the food, like Deadlock would have done. They'd tugged him along like a dog, and weren't afraid to kick the moment Jesse started to pull back. But for all of Reyes's brooding talk and dark eyes, these people seemed much better. They didn't starve him, didn't cut off water when he stumbled in training or missed a shot. The only punishment those first few weeks was the feeling of Reyes's eyes burning holes into his back. 

Even when he was snappy, jumpy, bared his teeth and flinched away from the other people, from his new comrades, they didn't lash out to punish him. Somewhere in that, Jesse was pretty sure they pitied him. And maybe that was the only thing worse than punishment. They looked at him with sad eyes when he flinched, when he looked at food like it was never going to be there again, as if he was some poor puppy trapped on the other side of a cage.  He didn't want to be pitied or babied. He wanted to be treated like a man. And as the days went on, it became more and more clear how to reach that goal.

Before, people had called him ruthless. He didn't like to think of it like that, like he was cold or vicious or anything. He simply saw how to get from point A to point B without messing with anything between. A bright, clear, line that could lead him to whatever he so desired. And now? That bright clear line led him forward.

By week three, he had stopped flinching. Stopped tripping. Every single shot that was fired from the revolver met its target. He was succeeding more and more each day. Reyes's eyes stopped following him with disappointment. There was something new there, when he looked down to the 18-year-old boy he'd pulled from the rubble. What was it? Pride? Love? Something Jesse hadn't seen in someone's eyes since his mother. He knew he shouldn't have payed as much attention to it as he wanted, but it warmed his core. He wanted more of that. And so he pushed and pushed - pushed until he thought his lungs would burst and his arm ached.

And at week 4, Reyes, no,  _Gabe_ , decided that it was time for him to meet the rest of the crew. Time to put his little sharpshooter into practice.

* * *

"The blonde girl, she's... Angela, right? She's my age."

_"Yeah, Mercy. You're not the only prodigy around here, Cowboy."_

"I know who the man is - That's Jack Morrison."

_"I'd be more impressed if he hadn't introduced himself to you today."_

"Hey! I knew who he was before you introduced me. I've seen the commercials."

Gabriel and Jesse sat on the edge of one of the bridges in the base, leaning on the railings and legs dangling over the edge. It wasn't a huge drop, probably only 30 feet. Enough to make Jesse damn glad that he had something to hold on to as he watched people mill about below him. It had been a bit of a surprise when Gabe had found him, and instead of barking at him to go get back to work, had sat down next to him. But Jesse wasn't about to complain. Plenty of people had been nice to him, but he wasn't about to say that he had made friends. With maybe the exception of Gabe, whom he followed about like a baby duckling.

"What's up with the kid?"

" _You're the kid, Cowboy."_

"No, I mean, the little girl." Gabe frowned, his eyebrows creasing together for just a moment. Then he caught on, nodding a little. It was strange still to see him so animated. Jesse was used to the scowling. It was a nice change.

_"Ana's kid. Fareeha. Ana brings her around sometimes. She's not too much younger than you."_

"She's 15!"

 _"And you're not exactly ancient, hjio."_ Maybe he had a point there. Jesse shrugged, resting his chin on one of the bars on the railing. Bright red fabric of a new bandana lingered on the edge of his vision. He didn't know why he'd gotten the bandana, but he liked it. Something to set him apart. Something to make him a little different than who he'd used to be. He liked that idea. He was a different Jesse McCree than who he'd used to be. Maybe he'd let his hair grow out more too - already it curled beneath his ears. His ma would have cut it with her own two hands at this point. 

"Are you gonna add me to active duty soon?"

There was several moments of silence. Gabe didn't look at him, just stared forward, frowning into space. Jesse couldn't read him, but he would have given anything for the opportunity. Gabe was important, he was his lifeline. To be able to understand him a little better? That would have been a gift.

_"You really think you're ready, Cowboy?"_

"I came here ready."

He laughed suddenly, the sound nearly making Jesse jump out of his skin. He stared in awe, unused to the grin that split Gabe's face.

_"We'll see, Jesse. We'll see."_

 


	8. Deadeye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be wary my dudes, this one is a little graphic.

They were going to die. It wasn't a question - He could feel the thrumming of his heart, like hooves on cement. Death rode on his horse here, snatching souls up wherever he went. He could hear him laughing, feel the breath of a horse on the back of his neck. 

_I'm going to die! I'm going to die!_

He wanted to scream; this was madness. Deadlock and the rest of the gang, himself included, would be torn away from the Earth. This was going to be the shootout that put them all down. He cowered against the feeling of smooth concrete, clutching his gun, hands trembling. He was going to die - his ma would have another man to bury in the cemetery. Assuming, of course, there would be enough of him to even bury. They might just riddle his corpse full of bullets until there was nothing recognizable left. And then what? Would Ma just wonder and wonder what happened to her only son? The boy who had vanished in the night? It made him sick to think about.

Over the gunshots and screaming, he could hear Deadlock. Hollering,  _screaming,_ at him from across the field. Even from there, he could make out what he was saying:

" _Shoot Jesse! Shoot that damn gun! Shoot!"_

What other choice did he have? There were six men firing - a bullet for each. There was no way he'd be able to hit them all. But he would go down shooting. He wouldn't sit here, cowering behind what was left of a wall. He clutched the gun for a moment longer, blinking the tears away from his eyes, and then stood, turning and whipping the Peacekeeper up. He took a deep breath and then...

The world stopped. 

It went red, time slowing as he tried to process what was happening. Had he been shot in the eye? He didn't know. All he did know was that he had to pull the trigger. And so he did. He felt the gun fire. 6 times he pulled it, red gaze going from man to man. Men dropped like flies, their blood or brains splattering down across the grass or concrete. Red holes replaces eyes, appeared in foreheads, all in an instant.

And then there was silence. Jesse stood, his shoulders heaving, the feeling of something trickling down from his eye. Had he started crying again? His head turned, looking to the other members of the gang who stared at the boy standing before them. He'd seen them when they were respectful, when they were angry, when they were shocked. None of those emotions read over the men's faces. But all the same, Jesse knew what it was: they were scared. Terrified. One hand rose to wipe the tear that had slipped from his eye, and he looked down at his fingertips. It wasn't tears that stained his fingers. It was blood.

He stared at the red, his heart nearly stopping in his chest. Later, the men would say he'd killed those men in a blink of an eye, his hands moving too fast to see. He'd shot them all before they'd even realized he had stood up. It didn't comfort him. The only thought that had ran through his head, the only thing that screamed through his brain still echoed in him.

_What's wrong with me?_

* * *

 

He woke with a cry, cool air filling his lungs so fast he nearly choked. Both hands snapped up, rubbing at his eyes, desperately turning on the lamp near his bed, searching for any signs of blood. His hands were clean and dry, no sign of blood. The relief nearly made him scream again. But instead of screaming into the night, Jesse turned to get out of bed, throwing on a t-shirt and quietly walked out of his room. Nobody would be up this late to watch him roam the halls of the base, his bare feet dragging against the metal floors. They were all asleep - Angela, Reinhardt, Gabe and Jack (Probably together. It still made his heart flutter in all kinds of ways when he saw the two of them together. So open. They didn't care.). But not everyone, it seemed. He opened the door to the catina, only to see that someone else stood in the kitchen. He almost didn't recognize her at first, dark hair pulled up and away from her face, in nothing but a t-shirt and sleep pants of her own. He glanced down at the boxers he had on, suddenly wishing he'd taken the 30 seconds to get dressed. Too late now.

Ana turned to look over her shoulder at the boy, a smile playing at the edge of her lips. 

 _"What're we doing up so late, mm?"_ His heart skipped a beat. Something about the way she spoke made him think of his own mother, so far away from him. He shuffled closer, suddenly shy. Was she going to yell at him for being up so late? He wasn't _really_ a child anymore, but that hardly seemed to stop Gabe. But if she was angry with him, Jesse couldn't see it. She was too relaxed. The silence lasted until he was at the counter, looking down at his hands as they folded on the countertop. Ana didn't say anything, just stood by him, sipping a steaming mug of tea, it looked like. She was a warrior, there was no doubt. He'd seen Ana snipe men before he'd ever known they were there. But she was also a mother. Someone to hold her daughter's hand, to love her and guide her.

It made him homesick. Reminded him of his Ma, with her salt and pepper hair piled up on her head, stroking his tan skin and humming softly when he was a boy. He wasn't exactly expecting that kind of treatment anymore, but it tugged on his heart all the same.

"I just had a bad dream. It's somethin' to deal with by myself." He said flatly, his tone lacking any of its usual light heartedness. It made him sound older, made him sound worn. He didn't want that to leak out, not when most people were just getting used to him smiling around them. But he couldn't stop it now, not when it was oozing from the cracks, onto the counter, where Ana could plainly see what he was. She didn't say anything, didn't look at him, didn't  _pity_ him but didn't comfort either. It was silent acceptance, mulling over the words he'd spoken. He couldn't explain of course, couldn't tell her why he bled or how he did it. Maybe he was a mutant freak or something. Maybe it was something darker - a gift from the devil, if he was gonna believe in that kind of thing. But Ana didn't ask for any more information, thank God. He wasn't sure what he would have said if she had.

_Sorry, I sometimes go into a murder trance. I kill a lot of people, and then blood leaks out of my eyes._

She stood up straight, still having to look up to look Jesse in the eyes. And something told him she knew more than he thought she did. But that wasn't exactly a surprise, he was quickly learning. These Overwatch folks played hero, but there was something a little darker between the lines. And maybe he fit right in those dark places, where they learned secrets and killed people and never spoke about it.

_"We all have them. You're not by yourself anymore, Jesse. Remember that."_

She clapped him on the shoulder once, grabbed her mug and left. He stood, watching her go, until the automatic lights shut off in the kitchen, and he was left with nothing but her words.


End file.
